Reason To Write

They say everyone sees life through a lens. Modern psychology insists we see everyday events through the lens of our past. An example of this is the person who has been repeatedly bitten by dogs and has never met a friendly mutt, and who goes on to assume that the sight of any dog is sufficient cause for fear. Thus, many feel trapped in a world where fear lurks around every corner, and nowhere is safe, not even their own front walk.

This "lens" theory, as it is sometimes called, applies to each of us, reflecting our unique pasts to create our own unique view of reality. For some, raised in happy homes and accepted by society at large, that view is pleasant, even hopeful. For others, those from abusive homes, or those rejected by society, the world is full of dangers, pains, and lack of hope. But it doesn't have to be like that. I know. I lived there, and by God's grace, I made it out. I love life, and I love people. I have many friends who, apart from God's healing, love, and deliverance, I would not be able to trust in even the smallest matters. This is my story, and if you are willing to face the fact that with God's help, reality can change for each of us trapped in gloom and despair, I invite you to join me as I retell this story of pain.

I will begin at the best place, that is, the beginning. Some of the entries will be merely from memory, while others, later on, may include original poems or journal entries from the time I am writing about. The journey has been long, but I will attempt to keep it as brief as possible while giving adequate detail for you, the reader, to join in. Each segment will be archived at left under its appropriate title, and new posts will appear first under this one. I will, at all times, attempt to keep a balanced view and include the good times alongside the bad, the humor alongside the pain. Certain names have been changed to protect both the innocent and the guilty from painful memories. Many of those involved in the stories, including my mother, are sincerely trying to be better people and to get along with others more regularly. This is not a gossip column, nor is it a smear campaign against friends or loved ones. This is my story, and through it I pray God will bless and encourage others going through similar things. I am a writer, I am a Christian, and I am flawed. Join with me in discovering how an awesome God takes the worst of humans and makes something that by His grace becomes a tool in the Master's hand.

Part 11 - A Symbolic Birth

While still living in the "blink and you'll miss it" town in Iowa, my mom began taking us to a church in a neighboring area. It was here I met my favorite Sunday School teacher, and here that I got baptized. The Sunday School teacher was a kind, older gentleman, whom I'll call Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown was the kind of man who cared deeply for each of his students. He didn't expect us to be miniature adults, but instead encouraged us to enjoy being kids and learning about God. I remember one incentive he offered was a brand new Bible and a pizza party if we would memorize the books of the Bible. I did so, and boy was the party great. I probably still have that Bible somewhere, with its brilliant white cover and gilded pages. On the front cover, in gold stamped letters, were the words "Holy Bible." It was beautiful, and I liked knowing I had received it as a gift from someone who truly cared.

In the winter of that year my mom decided I was old enough to get baptized. It wasn't that she particularly cared about my being a Christian, as once again her decision seemed centered on what others thought. I was a child, age 10, and that meant I was old enough to make a "serious" committment to Christ. While I already had that committment in my heart, the prospect of being baptized was exciting, albeit a bit nerve-racking. I remember the baptismal candidates' class in the pastor's office behind the sanctuary. He talked to us about the symbolism of baptism, and what it meant for us to make that decision. He seemed sincere in his desire to make sure every person being baptized could fully understand their decision and its implications. He was a nice guy, and looking at him helped me relax a little when everyone else was staring as I entered the water. After a confession of faith, the pastor dunked me, and I grabbed my nose just seconds before going under. For several days after my baptism it seemed I walked on air. I'd never felt so light and happy before, and I knew God was happy with what I'd done. That's what mattered.

Later that year I got my first indoor pet, an albino dwarf rabbit named Fluffy. Fluffy was surprisingly sweet at first, and I remember being teased when I cried the first night I held him as he licked my hands. However, as time went on, Fluffy became mean and aggressive. I even learned to watch myself as I went to feed him, as he would often charge at my hand in an attempt to bite me. Perhaps he picked up on the emotionally charged environment, or perhaps he had a poor disposition, as I've heard many albino rabbits have. Either way, I'm sure his demeanor wasn't entirely his fault, and so I learned to love him.

Part 10 - A New State of Mind

At age nine, I moved with my family to a new town in Iowa about a half hour from my grandparents and other relatives. The new town was one of those "blink and you miss it" places, and it was here my most outstanding memory of abuse was created.

Up until this point I had continued my struggle to suppress the realization that I was abused, but one day as I sat in school, all that changed. A few of my friends and I were sitting and talking during a break in class. They began to discuss their lives at home and how, while they didn't like being spanked, it was quick and only hurt for a little while, and then it was over. Very rarely are kids that open about methods of discipline at home, but on this particular day, for whatever reason, these kids were. I remember deciding the time had come to find out once and for all just how abnormal my home life might be. I asked my classmates if their parents ever hit them anywhere else, and they said, "No, silly, that would be abuse." I bit my lip for a moment, then asked if their parents hit them a lot of times during spankings so that it hurt a lot. They replied once again, "Of course not. That would be abuse too. Does your mom do that?" I just looked at the floor and shook my head.

After school, I decided to stop by a friend's house a few blocks away to collect some payment I'd earned taking care of her dog while her family was gone. My brother, Jeff, at age five, was supposed to walk home with me, and since my friend's house was less than a block out of the way, I asked him to come with me while I got the money. Instead of agreeing with me, Jeff decided he'd rather go home, and no matter how I tried to persuade him, he refused to go with me. Finally, I told him to just wait there while I walked to my friend's house and came right back. I was sure I would only need to enter her front porch to get the money, and thus keep an eye on my brother the whole time. My orders to Jeff issued, I made my way to my friend's house to collect my money. Somehow I must have been distracted, because when I turned around, Jeff had disappeared. I ran all the way home, shaking in fear of what my mom might do if she saw Jeff arrive home without me. Sure enough, he arrived alone, and my mom was mad.

As I entered the house, I was greeted with a fierce hostility by my mom, who accused me of being selfish and putting Jeff's safety at risk just to get a few bucks. The whole time she yelled, my anger began to rise at the realization I had finally given in to earlier in the day - that my mom was indeed abusive. Finally, when she'd worked up enough anger, my mom told me to get to where she was for my punishment. I paused long enough for adrenaline to carry me past any sort of sense, and then I exploded.

"Go ahead, beat me!" I yelled. "Isn't that what you do anyway? I know it is!" My face grew hot as I continued to rage. "Go ahead, Mom! Beat me! Beat me!"

My mom hesitated. She'd never seen this sort of outburst from me, and I'm guessing felt taken aback by my rage. After a few seconds, however, her own face grew red as her temper boiled over.

"So, I beat you, do I?" Her voice quivered with rage. "You don't know anything. You don't even know what a beating is! Get over here!" She started towards me. "I'll show you what it is to be beat."

My mom reached for me and threw me against the wall. She punched me several times in the stomach and elsewhere, then threw me to the ground. She approached me from behind and began to kick me, and after a bit she grabbed onto my arm and began dragging me towards her bedroom and the three steps that led from the living room down to it. I yelled and tried to brake myself against the carpet with my free arm, but the rug burn was too much, and my mom was too strong. I braced my body for the steps, and soon found myself in her bedroom, where she jerked me onto her bed and continued her rage with one of the worst spankings I had received. I screamed and yelled my apologies, but to no avail. My mom stopped only when she ran out of fuel for anger, then dismissed me with the phrase, "Get out of my sight." I did so.

On my way back to my bedroom, I passed Jeff, who had witnessed the entire first part of the beating from his place on a living room rocking chair. Bitterness rose in my heart. I spat out the words, "See what you did?"

Jeff only shrugged and said, "You deserved it."

My heart tore in two.

I was in a new state, and my new state of mind was now in place. Was I abused? Yes. Could I stop or confront that abuse? Never. I knew that much for sure.

Part 9 - A Matter of Hygiene

Matters of hygiene at my childhood houses were usually traumatic and always dreaded. For instance, even at the age of eight my mom still gave me baths, insisting my hair was too thick for me to clean by myself. While she may have been right about my hair, bath time was still a dreaded event for my eight-year-old mind. I felt as though my mom violated my shy and innocent nature, and she often became angry when I didn't do things just right. Being hit on my wet skin, even in private areas, wasn't fun, but there was nothing I could do about it.

Just prior to receiving my journal I got my ears pierced. As a total tomboy, having pierced ears wasn't too terribly important, but it was a sign of growing older, so I didn't mind. However, soon after getting them pierced I realized there was a problem. My ears were always sore, and other symptoms were present that seemed to indicate an allergy to cheaper metals.

Shortly after the above-mentioned symptoms began, during one of my dreaded bathtimes, my mom went to wash behind my ears and found a purple mass the size of a small pea attached to the back of my earlobe. She immediately recognized it as a sign of infection, but rather than taking me to the doctor to have it removed, she simply ripped it off, taking a patch of skin with it. My ear bled for a long time, and I remember grabbing wads of toilet paper and holding them to my ear to catch the blood. My mom was unsympathetic, and told me to stop being such a baby.

Later that same year, I graduated to taking showers with my mom, and a year later, to taking them on my own. Even then my mom maintained control over things such as cutting my fingernails (she'd cut the quick) and towel-drying my hair. But that was all normal, at least for me.

Part 8 - A Diary Of Sorts

At age eight we moved to a new town, still in Missouri. My dad began staying with his mother in Iowa during the week in order to attend a junior college and came home only on weekends. During one of those weekends I received my first diary as a gift from my dad. It was pink, with a Precious Moments character on the cover, and it fascinated me. The very thought of having something private, something personal that was mine and mine alone intrigued me. It was a tempting idea, luring me into its grasp, but it didn't last long.

Soon after receiving the diary I realized it wasn't safe. There was no lock, and even if there had been, I wouldn't have stood up to my mom had she demanded to view my entries. I gave up my longing to write openly and instead began to write what I thought would please my mom. For example, the following is an actual entry dated April 15, 1992:

"Today I had library. It was boring! After that we had computers! I got my name in the Hall Of Fame! Today was exciting!"

However, one night, after years of struggling with the knowledge that my own treatment at home was not normal, I decided to be honest. My mom had gotten upset, and while I don't remember the specific details of what happened, I know it was painful. In anger, I scrawled out an entry to an older self that I hoped would someday read and remember what had happened. However, I so feared my mother's finding my diary that I later went back and erased the entry, replacing it with one more in line with my mom's desires. Still, the deep, angry pencil lines I'd written could not be entirely erased, so parts of the entry are still visible, and tucked neatly away near the binding of my journal are years-old bits of eraser. Here, quoted as best I can make out, is what remains of that night's anger:

"Mom beat me! She doesn't even care the least about me. Never forget them! Never forget the beatings she gave you!"

That night, May 12 of 1993, at the age of eight all of my inner turmoil spilled out onto the 4" x 5" page of my personal journal. Soon, those angry words were erased and covered with a journal entry of a similar nature to the first one I quoted. After all, life was good, my anger forgotten, and the family secret was once more safe.

Part 7 - A Bonding Moment

The same year we got Beauty, which was, of course, also the year I was sexually abused and had four boys chasing after me, my dad and I had an unusual experience. At least, unusual for us. My dad is a nice guy. Soft spoken, tender hearted, and unsure how to connect emotionally with his children, he nevertheless tried his best to be a good father to us. Through all of the abuse my mom aimed at him, he still stuck around, though I'm not entirely sure why. Often, after a hard day's work at whatever job he happened to have at the time, he would come home only to be yelled at, hit, and belittled by his wife and even his children. Sometimes my mom forced us to say bad things to our dad, such as calling him lazy and a jerk, and telling him he never provided for our family. But he tried. And he knew we didn't mean those things. After all, he knew my mom. He married her.

One day while living in our Ozark hills house, I came home from school and made my way down the long driveway, noting that my dad must be gone, since the car wasn't there. Back then, we had two cars. My dad drove one, and my mom the other. My dad's was a tiny Fiesta, but if I remember right, one that was in good condition. On this particular day I entered the house to find my dad sitting silently on the stairs leading from the entryway up to the living area. I could tell by his demeanor something was wrong. I asked where the car was, and I'll never forget his simple reply: "I wrecked it."

In that moment, in the fearful anticipation of my mom's reaction, my dad and I connected in a way that rarely, if ever, happened after that point. I remember looking at him for a split second, then falling into his arms as he held me and we both wept. I don't know how to describe the bond we felt at that moment, but we somehow related to each other. We knew my mom, his wife, would be angry, that she would yell, and that she would most likely begin to hit him again. We knew he hadn't wrecked that car on purpose, but we also knew that wouldn't matter to my mom. In her eyes, he was a failure. We both were. In her eyes, we deserved whatever abuse she decided to dish out upon our already overloaded shoulders. In her eyes, only her views were correct, and only she mattered. In those few moments as my dad held me, we wept, and in so doing we silently acknowledged one another's pain. We acknowledged, albeit wordlessly, the abuse we both knew was happening at home, and we acknowledged that neither of us could talk about it. We wept, we bonded, and then we went on about our lives as if it were all normal. There was nothing else we could do.

Part 6 - A Cat Named Beauty

I was seven years old and had never owned a pet in my life, unless you count the box turtle I kept for one day inside a five gallon bucket, only to wake the next morning to discover it missing. But I wanted one. I'd wanted a pet for as long as I could remember. Then, not too long after moving to our new house in the Ozark hill country, it so happened my grandpa invited me for a drive down our gravel road, "just to see where it went." Actually, the road was paved in front of the house, but soon after turned to gravel and dust. But back to the story. Grandpa and I have always been close, and even though he's my mom's adoptive father, that never got between us. In fact, I was closer to him from the start than any of my other grandpas, both of whom are now dead. My grandpa and I always had a very unique bond, one which was often described by the words, "we're buddies!" But it was more than that. I didn't realize it at the time, but we both were experiencing a once-in-a-lifetime bond of love and similarity to each other. We still have that.

On this particular day, however, I climbed into Grandpa's truck and together we took off for new adventures. We'd gone perhaps a mile or so when we saw an old farmer working in the ditch near his house. Grandpa, being the friendly type, pulled over to talk. The gentleman saw me in the seat, and upon learning I was new to the area asked if I wanted a kitten. Boy, did I! Grandpa just smiled and told the gentleman we'd need to ask my parents first and would be back after a bit to let him know their answer. After a minimal amount of persuading, my parents agreed I could get a kitten, but it had to be an outdoor cat. I'd never been more thrilled in my life than I was at the moment Grandpa and I climbed back in his truck to pick out a cat.

Upon arriving at the farm, we located the farmer and asked him to show us the kittens he'd mentioned. He took us to an old silo and pointed to a bunch of rowdy, feral cats that must have been several months old at the time. After quite a workout, the farmer managed to catch one, but it only scratched and fought to get away. My grandpa just shook his head, but just as he was about to tell the gentleman we didn't want those cats, a beautiful siamese feline came walking our way, calm as could be.

"Is that the mother?" my grandpa asked.

"Yep."

"Could we have her?"

The man hesitated, then smiled. "Sure! You're welcome to her."

I grinned from ear to ear as Grandpa picked up the new cat, my new cat, and put her in an emptied sack for oranges. He was afraid she'd go wild on the way home, but after a bit of scratching, she just lay there, calm as could be.

I'll never forget when we took her inside to show my parents. We opened the bag and let her out, only to discover her fur matched our brown-and-tope colored carpet perfectly. I asked my mom what I should name her, and everyone agreed the only name for this cat was Beauty. Her blue eyes sparkled with a wisdom beyond her species, and she had an air of dignity and love that amazed everyone who saw her. What's more, she didn't seem to mind that I didn't know how to hold her. I remember one picture of me on the steps with my arms under her front legs grasping her loosely as the rest of her body hung straight down. She didn't fight to get loose, she just hung there as if grateful for even that attention. My brother, then age 3, sometimes pulled her tail or accidentally stepped on her toes, but she never bit or scratched at him. She just yelped a bit and went on her way.

Soon after bringing Beauty home, we realized why the gentleman had given her to us. Beauty was pregnant. She went on to have two more litters before we could get her spayed, some of which didn't turn out so well, as she apparently bred with some of her own offspring from down the road. Oh well. We kept a few of her kittens, but through all of the moves that would follow, only Beauty stayed with us. What a cat.

Part 5 - Four Boys, One Principal, And One Very Hot Room

During the time Jack abused me, four of my classmates also showed interest in dating me. I know, I know, "dating" isn't exactly the right word for a couple of 7-year-olds holding hands, but it's what we knew it as being called. These four boys, whom I will call Luke, Bryan, Jeffrey, and Kyle, all had a crush on me. They continually asked me out and even play-fought each other at recess to determine who should have me. I, being the tomboy I was, fought with them.

The boys did their best to impress me with their macho karate moves, and eventually their play-fights were noticed by the staff. The boys and I got in trouble four times for fighting, and while I only participated in the first incident, the school principal assumed I was involved in the other three as well. The boys were paddled, something that was still allowed in public schools back then, and one of the boys generously took my paddling for me. However, nothing could spare us from our sentence of one week of recesses spent copying the dictionary in what we called "the hot room." This was a small room lined with tables and hard plastic chairs. Two windows looked out from the room. One, a large picture window, offered a tempting view of the playground, while the other showed the principal's office. The room's nickname was well earned, since the principal kept the space heater there running full blast even during the hot summer months. I imagine had the state found out what he was doing, this principal would have been in a great heap of trouble. Unfortunately for us, that never happened.

At one point, each of the four boys came up to me privately to ask me who I liked the most. I knew that because of Jack's abuse, I couldn't commit to a relationship with any of the boys, but neither could I tell them about Jack. Thus, each boy who approached me was told in confidence that he was the one I cared for above the others. That way nobody's feelings got hurt. It worked like a charm, at least until the four boys began to boast to each other about my "private" confessions. Needless to say, I found myself in quite a pickle. I ended up telling the boys that I had only told one of them I liked him the most. In my mind, the fact that the boys had broken their agreement to keep my words confidential gave me license to lie further to them. Funny how the thought never occurred to me that I was the one who had lied first.

After my deceitful words, the boys became angry with each other, but it didn't last long. Soon they were back to normal, with each boy courting me and trying to prove his love. Meanwhile, I'd discovered a new love - a cat named Beauty.